Yesterday, I got to greet President Obama when Air Force One arrived at JFK Airport.
One of the perks of my job and my life is that I have a press pass. To that end, I use it whenever I can, to see as much interesting shit as I can, as often as a I can. (What, after all, is the meaning of our existence, but to make the most of these moment when we’re sentient beings, between our stints as dust, to see/touch/smell/hear/taste as much as we can?) The irony in my line of work is there’s often little time for live experience, and those writing from computers can often access information much faster and efficiently than those trawling around in the field.
Still, I’m a big believer in the karma of going to events in person, and even when I don’t “have to” explicitly see something with my own eyes for a story, I try to experience it live for my soul.
Yesterday was a rather extraordinary example of that, or so I expected anyway, when I filed credentials to join the local press corps for Air Force One’s arrival. (I didn’t yet know that the local press “corps” would be all of me and three others.) I’d shaken Senator Obama’s hand when he’d campaigned in New Jersey, watched him be sworn into office when I covered his inauguration for my hometown paper, watched him pledge to repeal DADT at the HRC dinner before the big gay rights march of 2009, and then witnessed him sign that bill into law last December.
But I’d never seen him in my current hometown. And, beyond a general curiosity about the whole ballet that occurs when POTUS comes to visit, I thought it was important to go yesterday specifically. I wanted to welcome (in the semi-detached way a member of the press, even one like me who writes for the Village Voice) our American President to town.
In the morning, the White House had released Obama’s long form certificate. There are many complicated reasons it was wrong that birtherism had come to this, and while Obama’s address:
delivered a powerful message with his typical eloquence and emotional intelligence, this speech, by Baratunde Thurston, articulated my own feelings more viscerally.
For my part, the best way to cope with End-of-the-Birthers-Day was to practice my trade and greet the President, our American President, as he arrived in the greatest city in the world.
Like most things with me, it wasn’t a particularly easy journey. En route to see the most expensive, sophisticated personal travel vehicle which doesn’t travel to space, I took public transit and then hitched a ride in about the nastiest gypsy cab I’ve ever been in.
Sadly, Air Force One has to park in the bargain basement section of JFK, near where all the cheap airlines keep their aging 747s in hangars the size of sports arenas. There are multiple overlapping security agencies operating when POTUS comes to town, starting with the Air Force (who sends pilots to oversee operations at the airport one to two weeks in advance of his visit). But the first line of defense you’re aware of when you arrive for your security sweep are unpaid and have four legs.
As I waited for the press aide to escort us, I watched Marine One test and prepare for flight. The hordes of jumpsuit clad pilots, running around their flight deck, reminded me of the scene in Star Wars when the rebel alliance is ramping up to take on the Death Star.
Alas, their efforts were in vain. In the billowing fog and increasingly high winds, the choppers were scrapped. The Sea King was pulled into the hangar, and the Secret Service told me sternly, “No pictures of the bird while she’s in the hanger, sir” — but not until I’d taken this already.
Our press pool consisted of all of three people: an Israeli born photographer for the AP, an African news wire writer, a crazy black woman from Queens with a shady self published magazine, and me.
The photographer wanted to know if we were all together from the same outfit, presumably because of our skin color.
Eventually, they moved us all from the hangar to the viewing stands. The driver of the Swiss stair car seemed unconcerned with potential hop-ons and thrilled to be playing his role in welcoming the President.
I’d expected the arrival to be over and done before I knew it was happening. But it was all pretty thrilling and involved. Like a ghost appearing out of the fog, the 747 crept toward the hangar with a grace unusual of something that large.
The real press pool, those traveling with the President, came out first from the rear of the plane, followed by back pack clad Regie Love.
And then, there he was coming out of the top deck of the plane, the lone person to use those Swiss stairs. (Andre should be proud.)
“He’s in good shape, so it happens fast,” the AP photographer had warned us. And indeed, Obama is a bit of a bounder. But rather than disappear right away into his ride, he came over and shook hands with the 20 or so “friends” and dignitaries who’d come to welcome him.
He was a lot grayer than when I’d been that close to him in February 2008. But there seemed to be a genuine happiness about him still, and he seemed quite unperturbed for a man that had had to prove he was a citizen of the country of which he’s the chief executive just a few hours prior.
The AP photographer noted he shook hands longer than normal.
And after a couple minutes, he and Love climbed into a car that looked liked the monster truck version of a limo.
And in a flash of elegant choreography, a caravan of about fifty vehicles – including NYPD, PAPD, Air Force and Secret Service agents – sped off not towards the street, but towards the runway. As they disappeared into the fog, it seemed like they were trying to fly away (to Jon Corzine’s house, as it turns out).
I looked at Air Force One — suddenly thinking “she” looked quite lonely when the parade had passed her by — and thought about how an African AMERICAN president had jut emerged from it at JFK memorial airport.
The pilot then disembarked, a very dapper man who made me think of my father in his crisp Air Force uniform.
I wish there had been digital cameras when Bill Thrasher was in charge of runway security for the Air Force when John Kennedy had visited upstate New York. I wish their handshake had been recorded. (Then again, my dad wasn’t too sentimental about these things. He made fun of his starstruck friend who said “The President shook my hand! I’ll never wash it again!” and her endlessly teased my mother, who didn’t come to the base that day because she thought there would “be crowds” and also because she had voted for Nixon!!!)
Being more sentimental, I took a picture.
Then I left, not being too depressed about birther nonsense. I didn’t “need” to be there for work, but I learned a lot from the military and secret service and, in an ephemeral way, about this man who is leading out country. (And, as I usually do in these scenarios, I learned something about my dad.) I left feeling so optimistic, I accepted a lift from the crazy magazine writer to the subway, thinking, “How much could go wrong in such a short distance?”
Quite a lot, it turns out. I managed to go from Air Force One to being stuck in the median of the Van Wyck Expressway in about 20 minutes.
But’s another story. Let’s just say that I learned when someone offers you a ride, make sure gas is included.